


The Laws of the World (Tell Us What Goes Sky)

by firstbreaths



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bookstore, Alternate Universe - College/University, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 21:38:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9626669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firstbreaths/pseuds/firstbreaths
Summary: As though maintaining a perfect GPA at Caltech wasn’t enough, Lydia Martin is also working as a Juice Junkie at a mall in downtown LA to afford books (and shoes). The only thing making this job worthwhile? Stiles Stilinski, who works at the mall bookstore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> A massive thanks must go to my wonderful beta Kris (@missgoalie75), for encouraging me to persist with this idea, supporting me through the many struggles of taking part in a big bang, and ironing out my persistent Australianisms. I've been talking about the idea for this fic for years and it wouldn't have been possible without her help - I'm so glad this baby finally made it into the world. Thanks also to my artist @hoalysmoaks for the wonderful piece of cover art, which you can find [here](http://hoalysmoaks.tumblr.com/post/156998384874/my-work-for-the-stydia-big-bang-based-off-of). And finally, thanks to @songof-light for the beautiful title card!

Here’s the thing: Lydia never expected to spend her sophomore year of college working as a Juice Junkie in some decrepit mall in downtown LA.

(Seriously, someone ought to tell the owners of the stores in this mall that there are literary tropes other than alliteration from which to draw inspiration. She’d happily lend them her copy of TS Eliot’s greatest works, even if he is occasionally a little too esoteric for her tastes.)

But, the thing is, there are only so many textbooks and pairs of killer high heels that she can buy with a scholarship, and a girl’s gotta pay rent. And eat, despite what her co-worker Allison’s magazines seem to suggest; Lydia knows science, can calculate metabolic rates as well as count calories, and she knows that those so-called health ideas are really just pseudo-diets with a side serving of bullshit. Hence, the job.

And the lunchtime visits to Book Nook (seriously, enough with the rhyming too) a few stores away from the food court.  

*

The first time Lydia visits the bookstore on her lunch break, it’s because her iPad battery is dead and she cannot spend the next forty-odd minutes listening to the inane chattering of customers in the food court. There’s a special kind of hell reserved for the people who think that eating sushi makes them cultured.

She makes her way past the only two other customers in the store, a pair of teenage boys who she knows will never actually read the _Game of Thrones_ books in their hands when the TV series has twice the nudity and a lot fewer words. She glares at them when they stare at her just a little too long. Lydia finds the science section, which is really just a small shelf in the back corner of the store, and she runs her thumb along the spines of the books before pulling out a biography of Albert Einstein. It’s cheap enough and maybe she can entertain herself by working out exactly what the authors got wrong, she decides. Just as she flips to the contents page, the books on the shelf she’d just pulled this particular find from topple, one of them landing on her foot.

Lydia automatically bends over to pick them up, the bottom of her apron swishing along the carpet, when a hand reaches out in front of her, scooping up the two books furthest from her foot. She glances up, taking in the guy’s monogrammed polo and the pen smudges on the side of his hand where he’d written himself a note, _order Twilight deluxe edition_ , and right, obviously an employee.

Lydia stands up straight, smooths out the wrinkles in her apron, and says, “What kind of a bookshop doesn’t have the deluxe edition of _Twilight_?”

“Boss is considering revising her no supernatural creatures policy,” he replies. “Tends to cause a few occupational hazards – screaming girls being the least of them.”

“I think you’re getting your source material mixed up; music store’s five stores down if you want a copy of One Direction,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “But I might be able to forgive you –- what’s your view on Harry Potter?”

“I spent all of third grade wishing I was Hermione,” he says, as he fits the last of the books she’d knocked over into the shelf, patting the spines with a self-congratulatory smile. “Although, you have to agree that she’s a perfect example of the occupational hazards of associating with supernatural creatures.”

“When _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_  includes a section on the Backstreet Boys, then I’ll concede the point.”

“Hermione would have been a bigger fan of NSYNC, I think.” He grins at her. “Besides, I wasn’t joking about the occupational hazard – ever had an Anne Rice novel fall on your head?”

Lydia smiles despite herself, because that’s something she never expected to have in common with a guy – then again, all she had in common with her high school boyfriend, Jackson, was a mutual appreciation for his abs. This guy is kind of cute, in a way she didn’t expect to find attractive – he moves his hands a lot when he speaks and his eyes kind of sparkle in a way that she’d find ridiculous if she didn’t know her own eyes lit up exactly like that whenever someone asked her a question about Asian mythology. (For the record, it’s happened exactly once, and she’s never been asked for homework help since then.)

She offers out her hand. His palm is a little clammy, but his grip is firm when he takes it. “Lydia Martin. And you are?”

“Stiles,” he says. His grin is a little wolfish, like he’s pre-empting her next question – what kind of a name is Stiles, seriously –

So instead, she says, as she turns to leave, “Maybe I’ll see you around.”

“Because you didn’t ask – my last name is Stilinski, hence, you know, the nickname,” he calls after her, and Lydia deliberately doesn’t look back, keeps her back straight and her head held high, hair swishing at the nape of her neck. It’s a defence mechanism she developed in high school, a way to be better at all the things that didn't really matter, in the end, but she pulls it out now, on her way back to work, because she’s Lydia Martin, and she does not get distracted.

She has plans that have nothing to do with this place, including maybe one day winning a Fields Medal in mathematics. She can’t afford to get distracted.

*

Allison, of course, sees straight through it.

“Do not tell me that you flirted with some guy in that outfit,” she sighs, squatting down to search for a box of disposable straws under the counter. “Or worse, let some guy flirt with you in that outfit.”

Lydia shrugs. “We discussed the continued relevance of mythological entities into the 21st century,” she replies, stepping forward to the counter, ready to serve the customer perusing the menu board. “It was all entirely PG-13, in case you’re worried – even though I can take care of myself, just so you know.”

There’s a sudden loud crack just as the customer steps forward to order, and Allison staggers backwards from where she’d been crouched, clutching at her head where she’d hit it against the edge of the counter and frowning severely. The box of straws she’d been holding falls to the floor.

“Do not tell me that you flirted with a guy about _Twilight_.”

Lydia just gives the customer her best, most award-winning smile.

*

The second time Lydia goes to the bookstore, she comes prepared with a list of titles that she’s looking for. (She also needs to buy a gift for her mom.) Stiles is behind the counter when she arrives, a pen lid sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he focuses on the inventory forms in front of him, and he almost swallows it whole when she steps up to the counter and says, “I thought you got paid to actually pay attention to people.”

“Lydia – hi.” Stiles spits the pen lid out, lips curling around it in a motion Lydia pretends not to notice for her own sanity, and smiles at her, pushing the paper he’d been focusing on away. “If you’re here for another scintillating conversation about _Twilight_ , I should warn you – I’m Team Alice.”

“ _Twilight_ would be more interesting if it was an exploration of Bella’s Sapphic awakening,” she agrees, biting back a laugh at the way Stiles’ jaw drops. “But, I’m actually wondering if you have a copy of _How to Win Friends and Influence People_.”

At his quirked eyebrow, she adds, “taking psychology as my final gen ed elective was a mistake.”

They make their way to the back of the store, past art history and philosophy and medicine (and why did Lydia have to pick a single major at college, again?), Stiles clicking his tongue against his teeth in the silence.

“So, Stiles,” she says, drawing out his name in a way that makes her feel almost powerful, “what do you do, besides run an eerily quiet bookstore?”

He glances sideways at her. “You’re going to mock me, based on the previous five minutes. But my best friend and I are working on a research project about local supernatural history in southern California.” He pauses. “And I work out. Sometimes.”

“History major?” Lydia asks curiously, because he really doesn’t fit any of the stereotypes; there’s no tweed in sight. (And, as one of only two girls in her advanced class on differential geometry this semester, she probably shouldn’t rely on stereotypes, but --

(Lydia Martin is an expert at picking up patterns.)

Stiles runs his thumb along the spines of the books until he finds the one he’s looking for. “No, it’s more of an independent thing –- the college scene wasn’t really for me.”

“Well, if you expected there to be a college ‘scene’ here, I can understand why,” Lydia says, nodding even though Stiles has his back to her, looking for the next book. “Sitting around drinking out of red plastic cups isn’t really my thing, and they’re not even biodegradable.”

Stiles shrugs. There’s something about the tilt of his shoulder that Lydia can’t quite place; she doesn’t think he’s Atlas, with the world on his shoulders, but there’s some kind of invisible weight there. “Well that, and the fact that I have the attention span of a puppy, according to my father.”

“I can’t imagine why,” Lydia replies, as they walk back towards the counter. Normally, she wouldn’t be interested, but —

It doesn’t really matter; Stiles keeps talking anyway.

“My best friend Scott and I - you should meet him, he works at the Whole Foods here and he’s great - have been working on it since our before our senior year of high school. We grew up a few hours from here, and my Dad’s a sheriff. Well, really, he’s the sheriff, it’s a small place. Anyway -- one summer, he let us go through a few old case files because that was less dangerous than letting us do almost anything else, and we found this file about an assault victim who swore she’d been attacked by a werewolf. She was probably completely fucking batty - supernatural pun intended - but -”

“So when you say you’ve been working on this project since high school?”

“We drive out to abandoned houses in my Jeep and scare each other shitless by telling ghost stories,” Stiles replies, with a sly grin. “Mostly. But now that we have access to a college library, Scott and I have been going through the historical archives, and -”

“There are the occasional things you can’t explain?” Lydia replies. “Historical ‘stories’ where the evidence doesn’t quite add up? More questions than answers?”

“Exactly,” Stiles says, stepping behind the counter and scanning her book. (She can’t believe she has to pay to read this crap.) His smile as she swipes her debit card is so blinding she has to look down at her shoes.

Lydia gets it. She doesn’t get  _it_ , necessarily, because she’s a mathematics major and evidence is everything to her; parapsychology, werewolves and vampires and demons are typically the kind of thing she’d wave off as a joke, unless Stiles could provide proof. In fact, the only reason she doesn’t laugh in Stiles’ face is because she’s lost track of the number of times someone has lamented that a pretty girl like her is going into theoretical mathematics (she’ll remember to thank the writers of _The Big Bang Theory_  for that, one day). Furthermore, she understands all too well what that moment of discovery feels like, when you realise there’s something you don’t know, and somehow that makes the universe feel smaller, a little more real to you. There’s nothing Lydia loves more than plotting out the steps required to find something out.

“I’d like to read your work sometime,” Lydia says, as she takes the paper bag and her receipt that Stiles has proffered her. “If you’ll let me, that is.”

“Uh, yeah, of course,” Stiles replies, looking oddly flushed. He drops his gaze to the counter, and Lydia looks away, too, feeling more than a little puzzled, but not sure what to do about it. So she busies herself by grabbing a pen and notepad from her back and writing down her number.

“Well, I’m going to need to do some background reading, so put aside a copy of _Dracula_ for me, okay,” Lydia jokes, after she’s done, and then tears out the page and passes it to Stiles.

“You’ve never read _Dracula_?” Stiles looks like he’s about to vomit.

She gives him five seconds before she relents.

*

 **Stiles:** so i’m overseeing an order of the cursed child script and i realised i never actually asked ur opinion on the use of mythical creatures in hp

 **Stiles:** this is stiles btw

 **Lydia:** How many people did you think were going to be randomly texting me about Harry Potter? Who also work at a bookstore?

 **Stiles:** right

 **Stiles:** but please tell me you have an opinion [hopeful emoji]

 **Lydia:** I can’t believe it took them a whole year to figure out that Lupin is a werewolf when his name literally means ‘moon’. Particularly since ‘Remus’ is only the most famous historical wolf of them all.

 **Stiles:** hahaha

 **Stiles:** in that case what’s ur opinion on albus severus?

*

Here’s the other thing: Lydia is a genius who has no idea what she’s doing.

High school had been easy. High school, particularly in the suburbs of New York, had been a hierarchy, and the complex set of social rules underpinning it was, in fact, deceptively simple: the rules didn’t apply to those at the top. So Lydia went to high school, and she went to all the parties, and pretended like she didn’t know the answers, and definitely didn’t hide a physics textbook behind her fashion magazine, because that would be stupid, but she _did_ participate in just enough extra-curriculars to ensure her acceptance to college. (And occasionally, she would name-drop an ancient philosopher into conversation just to see what would happen, and breathe a little more easy when nobody noticed.)

When it had been time to think about colleges, she’d gotten in everywhere she applied: Harvard, Yale, Columbia, Princeton, Caltech. She’d even been accepted to Cambridge, which she’d applied to on a whim, and after Jackson had announced he was moving to London, she absolutely couldn’t go. In the end, Caltech had been her choice -- it wasn’t running away from the East Coast if you were going to a top ten school for mathematics on a lucrative scholarship.

But —

College was -- less liberating than she expected, mostly because no one really cared. She’d hoped that they would care for the _right_ reasons this time, and sure, she’s gained a reputation among the professors for the quality of her work, and one time she’d completely shut down an idiot in a lecture who had _no_ idea about the contribution that Mary Cartwright had made to the field of mathematics, but the adrenalin rush and the friendships that had come from that had been fleeting, like all things in college seem to be. The high heels and the bright lipstick don’t seem to help her case, especially at a school like Caltech, but she’s grown to love those moments every morning when she gets to decide: who does she want to be today?

Lydia had taken the job at Juice Junkie on a whim, with no real expectations other than to get paid on time and yet, it’s turned out to be something much more than that.

Even if she’s not quite ready to admit how much the boy at the bookstore might have to do with that.

*

Stiles drops by on his lunch break a couple of times, generally ordering a smoothie with a ridiculous number of different fruits in it. Lydia’s not sure if he genuinely likes the taste of passionfruit and apples together, or he’s just inventing excuses to hang around whilst she blends everything together, but she wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the former.

Today, the store is even quieter than usual, so Lydia and Allison are both leaning back on the prep bench, Allison with the broom conveniently resting beside her in case Jennifer comes by to check on how the store is going. Stiles is leaning on the counter, propped up on his elbows, with an eyebrow raised in Allison’s direction.

“I can’t believe you’re writing off the entire fantasy genre just because of the latest craze of _hot vampires_ ,” he says scornfully. “You’re missing out on so many classics. Cornwall, Pratchett, dozens of books about vampires and werewolves that have nothing to do with teen idiocy.”

“It’s escapism.” Allison shrugs. “Some of us live in the real world. Can’t always rely on supernatural forces to deliver us from boredom… or climate change.”

“That’s… you’re a snob,” Stiles says. “Next thing, you’ll tell me you hate _Star Wars_  too.”

“No,” Lydia says, laughing at Allison’s shocked expression, “she’s French.”

She drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Also, it’s worse - she loves the prequels.”

Lydia deftly avoids Allison’s attempt to slap her.

“So you agree with me?” Stiles replies, a little too eager, and Lydia pretends to straighten the pile of loyalty cards stacked next to the till, deliberately ignoring the way Allison is looking at her. The thing is, Lydia’s been called a _snob_ more times than she can count, usually by boys like Stiles who were mad she wouldn’t date them. And besides, she’s way too acquainted with escapist literature, it’s just that instead of _The Vampire Diaries_ , her taste is more theoretical astrophysics.

“Show me the evidence,” she says to Stiles, flashing him a smile. “And while you’re at it, I need more convincing that the concoction of diabetes you’re drinking actually tastes good. No way does that combination of chemicals produce anything resembling the flavour of fruit.”

Stiles rattles his cup. “Could do with a little more ice, actually,” he says, before pushing the drink across the counter towards her. He’s already drunk three-quarters of it.

“Don’t you have books to order, a few tall shelves to dust?”

Allison coughs loudly. “Glad to see a budding scientist is so concerned about how we might save the world,” she says.

“Oh I am,” Lydia says, “but even a future Fields Medallist has a little time for fun. Besides, I like a good challenge — I’ll have a full lab report showing that I’m right done by morning.”

And with that, she flicks Stiles’ drink back to him with a grin.

*

 **To:** lydia.martin@caltech.edu

 **From:** s.stilinski@booknook.com

 **Subject:** Invitation to connect on Goodreads

https://www.goodreads.com/list/show/1891.You_Must_Have_Read_Neil_Gaiman

*

Christmas comes and goes, and between the _real_ nightmare before Christmas that is rampant holiday consumerism and focusing on finals, Lydia and Stiles barely see each other for three weeks. Lydia feigns out of returning to the East Coast this year, citing her high workload, when really, she’s just not keen to spend the holidays answering the neighbours’ prying questions and pretending to get along with her old high school friends. As proud as she is of everything she’s achieved at Caltech, that life of pretending to be somewhat less than she is is a like an old coat buried in her closet, two sizes too small and hideously out of date, but something she hasn’t quite been able to come to terms with getting rid of.

She does, however, spend the holidays with several incredible smelling bath bombs and a collection of the books from Stiles’ list. Despite the numerous plot holes (Lydia can appreciate Vonnegut’s satire, but time travel does _not_ work like that. And don’t even get her started on Terry Goodchild), she finds herself enjoying them. Allison was right, fantasy _is_ escapism, but of a different sort to what her friend probably intended.

She’s not running away from anything. Reading about the sheer amount of possibility in the world, all the alternate universes that could have been, if humans really knew what was out there — that’s running _towards_ something. It’s part of the reason Lydia loves math and physics so much.

Just don’t mention the universe she left behind this Christmas. Not yet.

*

 **Stiles:** just got back from beacon hills and i’m in need of some culture. wanna come bowling on sat?

 **Stiles:** u can invite allison if u want

 **Lydia:** Assuming I don’t have plans on a Saturday night?

 **Stiles:** … it was just an offer

 **Lydia:** Well, I do now, and they involve showing you up at tenpin.

*

She’s been summarily invited to at least half a dozen off-campus parties this weekend, hosted by kids whose parents are off skiing for the holidays, but really, it’s not like she has any plans.

*

The bowling alley is surprisingly quiet for a Saturday night, although they have to ignore the group of old guys in Hawaiian shirts at the lanes in the far corner, clearly trying way too hard to relive their glory days. She rarely hangs out with Allison outside of work, as Allison has college and her family — an apparently complicated relationship that she’s shrugged off, the few times Lydia has attempted to inquire — and a second job tutoring high school students in AP French. It’s not as strange as Lydia had expected, as they wait for the others, Allison’s hands buried in the pockets of her overalls as they trade barbs about the worst customers they’ve experienced.

In high school, Lydia would have died before she’d been caught going _bowling._

“Scott, this is Lydia and Allison,” Stiles says when he arrives, his smile shier than Lydia has ever seen it. “Lydia, Allison, Scott.”

“And before you ask, I’ve heard all about you,” Scott says to them, his grin equally wicked. Stiles punches him on the arm. Allison buries a cough in the crook of her elbow, but when Lydia glances over, it looks like she’s blushing. Interesting.

Allison also crushes them all at bowling, causing Stiles to pout in a way that’s not _entirely_ unattractive, but Lydia finds she doesn’t mind. Much. She could kick all their asses at Dance Dance Revolution.

“So,” Lydia asks, between turns. “What’s in Beacon Hills?”

“Surprisingly few beacons,” Scott pitches in. “Or hills, for that matter.”

“Stiles tells me there  _is_ a surprising number of supernatural creatures.”

Lydia doesn’t miss the look that Scott gives Stiles, which clearly says, _how much have you told her?_

“Well, we’re not sure,” Scott says slowly, “I mean -- there are lots of unexplained events, weird howls in the night, elderly residents who _claim_ they saw something lurking in the shadows. There’s definitely _something_ going on, we’re just not sure what yet.”

“What are you aiming for with this research?”, Lydia asks finally. “I mean, I would normally suggest an awareness campaign, but somehow I doubt the residents of Beacon Hills are going to believe signs that read ‘beware of werewolf’, even if there _was_ definitive proof of werewolves.”

“I could shoot them,” Allison offers, and Scott, Stiles and Lydia all turn to face her at once.

“What? I was the Lyon Region Junior Archery Champion back in 2008. Got the trophy to prove it and everything.”

“Okay, you are _definitely_ cool enough for Scott,” Stiles mutters. Allison, perhaps fortunately, doesn’t seem to hear him, but Scott gives him a good whack on the shoulder for his efforts.

“We were thinking of starting with teenagers,” Stiles says eventually, still rubbing his shoulder. “The average age of the girls reading supernatural fiction at our store is about fifteen, so we thought they might be more likely to believe -- or at least pay attention to anything that makes the school day a little more interesting.”

“Stiles would’ve gotten into a direct confrontation with a banshee if it meant missing Geometry,” Scott says.

Stiles throws his hands up and looks at Lydia, who just shrugs. “I’m majoring in mathematics at Caltech, remember.”

She pauses for a moment. “However, you might be onto something.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better about Allison kicking my ass, after _I_ invited _you_ to come bowling.”

“Actually,” Lydia says, as it’s Allison’s turn to hit Stiles gently, “I meant your comment about the average age of girls reading supernatural fiction. You might think it’s about fifteen, but really, the genre has had a huge resurgence of readers from all demographics, and linking your project to fiction and the role of supernatural creatures in pop culture might be a good way of drawing people into your research.”

“How do you know so much?” Stiles gapes.

Lydia smiles, and stands up to take her turn. “I read,” she says, and Stiles’ continued stare makes her feel _something_ , even as the ball makes a beeline straight for the gutter.

*

Afterwards, Stiles offers to take her home, shrugging his shoulders and jamming his hands into the pockets of his hoodie.

“Caltech’s not that far out of my way,” he says, almost like he’s anticipating her to question it.

“Caltech is a big campus.”

“It’ll do my baby good to be exposed to the best and brightest. Gotta think about her future.”

“Your baby —“

“Stiles’ relationship with his Jeep is a mystery to us all,” Scott pipes up, and Stiles gives him the finger.

“Is this is a ploy to get me in your car, Stiles?” Lydia jokes, as they walk out to his car. It’s gotten chilly, and she sucks in a breath and forces herself not to shiver, because she doesn’t want to have to go through the ritual of him offering her his coat and her refusing to take it; in all her time spent faking things, she’s learned that some of the most cliche plots actually hold true.

“Nah, _this_  is a ploy for Scott and Allison,” Stiles replies, nodding back towards their friends as he fishes in his pocket for his keys. “Figured we should let them get to know each other. Scott can thank me for taking on wingman duties without asking later.”

“Oh — of course,” Lydia replies. She opens the passenger door and ducks her head, setting her handbag at her feet. She may be still navigating her way through this friendship with Allison, but she thinks Allison and Scott would be well suited to each other, and they’d definitely been having fun.

When she straightens up, Stiles is looking at her, his left shoulder tipped up and a half-smile on his face, his eyes half-lidded.

“Scott and Allison, you totally picked up on it too, right?” He waves a hand in front of him, almost hitting the steering wheel. “That’s why you agreed to come with me, right?”

“I came with you because I needed a ride home, Stiles,” Lydia says, a little confused, and they fall silent, save for the directions coming from Stiles’ battered iPhone sitting on the centre console.

He pulls into the visitors’ lot in front of her dorm room, and she looks at him, in the dim half-light coming from the building’s windows, wondering what he sees. This is such cliche territory (Lydia’s been here, so many times, with Jackson), and Lydia’s not quite sure whether or not she wants to give into it. She knows as well as any scientist that inaction is just as a much of an action, so it’s not the safest path, but she doesn’t want to complicate this, whatever  _this_ is, so that’s the option she takes, nonetheless.

She’s just about to open the car door, when Stiles says, “I didn’t expect you to come tonight.”

“I said yes, didn’t I?”

There’s a pause. “Right.”

After another long pause, Stiles finally says “goodnight,” his voice so clearly neutral that she Lydia knows that can’t be the case.

So, as she gets out of the car, Lydia says, “we should do that again sometime. Which, considering how badly I embarrassed myself, is a sign that the supernatural is most likely real and I’ve been taken by bodysnatchers in the last twelve minutes.”

“Bodysnatchers wouldn’t dare mess with you,” Stiles says, and Lydia waves goodbye and turns to walk up the path before she has to come up with a witty response to that.

*

 **From:** lydia.martin@caltech.edu

 **To:** s.stilinski@booknook.com

 **Subject:** Recommendations

Stiles,

I was thinking about your project, and while I might not be Book Nook’s number one salesperson of Quarter 2 2016, I do consider myself well-versed in good textbooks. You should check out the work of Brian Josephon from Cambridge - while I’d normally write off his insights as pseudoscience, even _I_ have to admit that winning a Nobel Prize at the age of 22 is impressive. He’s written several articles on the relationship between parapsychology and quantum physics which should, at the very least, help rule out what explanations for the amount of supernatural activity in Beacon Hills are entirely improbable.

\- Lydia

PS. Allison seems very happy at work lately. Anything I should know about?

*

 **Lydia:** Jokes aside, do you believe in ghosts? Or werewolves?

 **Allison:** Is this what a prestigious education at Caltech gets you? Or have you just finally cracked from how much studying you do?

 **Lydia:** Both. Neither. I don’t believe anything is impossible, but doesn't mean that everything is possible either.

 **Allison:** Could you be any more cryptic?

 **Allison:** Also this feels like more of a drunken D&M convo but yes I do. Only sometimes they’re closer to home than we realize.

 **Lydia:** And you call me cryptic…

*

The following week, Lydia heads to the Book Nook on her lunch break, carrying sandwiches from the food court for both her and Stiles. (Stiles had _sworn_ that post-Christmas stocktake sales were a killer, but the store is as dead as ever.)

“I did some research,” Stiles says by way of greeting, pushing the cash drawer shut and moving automatically to the keyboard attached to the main register’s computer. He looks down at the sandwich Lydia slides across the counter to him and gives her a cursory nod of thanks. “When I got home the other day, I was thinking about what you said about supernatural fiction being popular with more than just teenagers, and -”

“You work in a bookstore, Stiles,” Lydia says, raising an eyebrow. “If you have that much trouble counting who’s buying your books, I can lend you an abacus.”

Stiles just waves his hand vaguely in the direction of the home improvement section. Lydia can almost see the dust settling on the spines of the books from here. “In case you haven’t noticed, we’re not exactly all that popular. Which is why I figured that it couldn’t hurt to do a little, you know, independent analysis.”

“Please do not tell me you looked it up on Wikipedia five minutes ago,” Lydia replies, stepping closer to the counter. From this distance, she can feel the intensity of his stare even as his eyes shift from the computer screen to the lone customer browsing through the self-help section to her and back again, and it should be unnerving, but she just thrills with it, unconsciously pushing her shoulders back.

“Of course I didn’t just look it up on Wikipedia,” Stiles says, lip curled in mock disgust. He taps away at the keyboard, eyes focused solely on the screen for a second. “I mean, my teachers might have occasionally sent home letters saying that I was unfocused and easily distracted, but that was mostly just because Scott and I were usually just discussing how much better their classes would be if they’d actually, you know, teach.”

He runs a hand through his hair as he spins the screen of the computer around, and Lydia cranes a neck to see what he wants to show her, before he beckons her around behind the counter instead. It’s a strange kind of intimacy that Lydia’s not sure what to make of.

“Anyway, the point is that I actually listened in sophomore history when they said not to trust Wikipedia, so I might have, uh, started there, but then I cross-checked it with a couple of government websites, our friend Erica’s English Lit professor, and one of those ridiculously huge encyclopaedias that we’ve got on sale this week.”

Stiles glances up at her from her, hands stilling at the keyboard as he obviously locates whatever piece of evidence he was looking for, and Lydia fights really hard to maintain control of her jaw before it drops to the floor as she steps behind the counter. After her admittedly rocky high school years, where she’d date anyone who didn’t find it a little odd that she was reading Les Miserables in its original language, Lydia’s learnt to be a little more discerning in her choice of men, but, honestly?

She really kind of wants to make out with Stiles right now.

Maybe she should be the one browsing the self-help section.

*

During the drive home, though, fingers drumming on the steering wheel as she sings along offkey to Beyonce, Lydia thinks about it, and -

It’s not like she actually needs help, really. At least not the kind that a bunch of pseudo-medical professionals sprouting life hacks can provide.

She feels alive with the knowledge of it in a way that college can never quite replicate, her whole body alight and tingling like the proverbial butterfly, about to burst out of the cocoon; there’s a reason that young adult novels are so popular, these days. Because, days spent squeezing oranges and fighting off the advances of gangly acne-scarred teenagers ordering smoothies aside, she’s young and kind of not-so-stupidly in lust with with Stiles Stilinski, and there’s something about it that even the most advanced of her biology textbooks couldn’t describe.

Fiction, she thinks, might do the trick. Lydia isn’t much of a writer, although she’ll happily curse anyone who doesn’t understand how to use the Oxford comma, but every time that Stiles makes her breath catch with the sound of his laugh, she feels a little more like, together, they could have a way with words.

*

Over the next few weeks, Stiles and Lydia take to researching together — sometimes one of them will text the other at 2am (okay, that’s always Stiles) to recommend a book or to lament the fact that vampires can’t eat garlic bread (okay, that’s also always Stiles), other times they’ll both sit in the food court on their lunch break with a smoothie, Stiles leaning over Lydia’s shoulder as they pore over spreadsheets full of data, trying to correlate the Sheriff's crime records with newspaper archives detailing strange events and some of the stories Scott and Stiles have gathered from local Beacon Hills residents. Even though Lydia has never even been to Beacon Hills, sometimes she feels like she too has an inexplicable connection to the town and its woods.

For someone that has no reason to believe in the supernatural, and less reason to believe in love, it’s an out-of-body experience, but Lydia comes to find that she likes it.

*****

**Stiles:** i think i made a breakthrough! wanna read 5000 words on mythological symbolism and why everything people think they know about werewolves is wrong???? [grin emoji]

 **Lydia:** As long as you can assure me it’s properly footnoted.

 **Lydia:** It’s statistically highly likely that my roommate thinks that APA is an STI. And I don’t joke about statistics.

 **Stiles:** good because I already sent it to you

*

It’s good, actually. Really good.

And, it’s not like Lydia had actively been expecting something terrible, but still.

*

Two days later, Stiles swings by her work on his lunch break. Allison just glances between them and, with a vague wave of her hand, tells Lydia that she’ll be fine to man the counter by herself for twenty minutes (but not longer).

Scott isn’t working today, but they head to Whole Foods for lunch, elbows knocking as they walk side by side. Once they’ve grabbed their containers, they sit down at a table, and Lydia takes a bite of her salad, glancing up to see Stiles looking at her expectantly.

She realises that he’s waiting for her to comment on his article just as he opens his mouth to inevitably say something vaguely self-deprecating to break the tension, so she says, “it was good. Really good.”

Stiles visibly relaxes; she can see his chest fall as he breathes out.

“Good. Great,” he says, “great as in --” he pauses, shovelling a mouthful of his own incredibly unhealthy pasta concoction into his mouth, “I’ve uh, never showed my drafts to anyone but Scott before, and he’s not really into actually documenting what we do, so I think he just tells me it’s good to shut me up, the asshole --”

“Well, Scott doesn’t know what he’s missing,” Lydia says, and she means it. She needs to do a little more background research to really understand his argument -- she thinks there’s some interesting stuff in Pacific mythology that they can draw upon, and she makes a mental note to see if her mom can arrange to ship her another box of her books from back home -- but, that in itself is a sign that he’s got talent. Hypothetically, Lydia is fascinated by everything. Practically? Ex-boyfriends and impulse sweater buys aside, Lydia Martin does not waste time on things undeserving of her attention.

Stiles ducks his head like he’s embarrassed.

“I know you said this is an independent research project, but you should think about getting it published.” She pauses, running her tongue behind her teeth. Stiles is smart, really fucking smart based on everything she knows about him so far, but he’s never really said why college wasn’t for him. “I did a research lab over the summer, and I’ve been working on a conference paper, so I’d be happy to help out with the formatting and all; I’m sure it can’t be that hard to get a feel for what the relevant journals expect.”

There’s an awkward pause in which Stiles stares down at his lunch, picking at his fingernails as he does; Lydia reaches into her pocket for her chapstick and reapplies it, waits for Stiles to say something. She’s never been particularly good at comforting other people, least of all when she’s not exactly sure why they’re upset.

“Did I ever tell you why I’m stuck working at The Book Nook?” Stiles asks finally, still not looking up from the table. “In case the terrible polyester uniform wasn’t, y’know, enough of a giveaway?”

Lydia thinks about it for a second. “Rent is expensive in LA,” she says finally, aware that’s not really an answer. She’s not sure why it feels so odd that he’s never told her.

“Well yeah,” Stiles says, finally looking up at her. He’s picking at his fingernails again. “I did a year of college, last year, and everything was great for the first few weeks. Scott and I were roommates, we made the C grade lacrosse team, and even won a game, but -- I had no idea what I was doing there.”

“Lots of people fail a class or two, Stiles,” Lydia says, tactfully not pointing out her 5.0 GPA. Although, judging by the skeptical look on Stiles’ face, he probably has a reasonable idea about her grades regardless.

“I didn’t actually fail anything,” he says, a little sourly. “Might have almost ended up in hospital with a heart attack after chugging down three cups of coffee plus a Red Bull to get my final essays in, but I passed. Just.” He pauses. “Scott only had two cups, and he failed Geography.”

“Anyway, the point is -- just hear me out, Lydia,” he protests, raising a hand as she goes to speak, “I had no fucking clue what I was doing there. Scott failed Geography, but he aced Biology, and now he’s talking about vet school, when I don’t even know what I want for breakfast tomorrow. I tried everything: Biology, Chemistry, Political Science, Renaissance History, and when I thought about it, I couldn’t picture myself doing any of them. So I dropped out. But I couldn’t leave Scott, so now I’m working at The Book Nook and hanging out with you, who’s practically a genius --”

Lydia realises a second too late that she’s staring at him with her mouth open, and quickly snaps it closed, but it’s too late. Stiles’ hands are balled into fists on the table, both of their lunches abandoned.

“Genius is a relative term in this situation,” Lydia says, “but I see your point.”

And, in an abstract way, she can kind of see how that point might be intimidating, but the thing is -- she doesn’t know how to be anything else. She only knows how to pretend at it, to act like her entire life is under control in the way her academic transcript is, like she’s normal, just another popular girl who doesn’t have to work for every scrap of power she’s ever managed to hold. Lydia spent most of her high school career using her brain to hide how smart she really was. In her freshman year of college, she slept with half the basketball  _and_ soccer team to pretend like losing Jackson, who’d been the one constant in her life until she moved to London, who until then she’d loved just for staying, didn’t matter.

Stiles, with his distinctive laugh and penchant for mango juice, had never given her an opportunity to pretend.

“You’re getting straight As at Caltech and you still somehow had time to read 5000 words about werewolves and show up to work with perfectly curled hair. Relax, Lyds,” he says, and she can’t help the small smile that emerges at the nickname. “I’m not mocking you. I’m just saying that most people hear the word ‘supernatural’ and think of Dean Winchester, and yet you actually took it seriously.”

“Well _lots_ of people take this kind of thing seriously, just not always on a surface level,” and if  _that_ isn’t a metaphor for her life, well.

“So what’s the point then?” Stiles scowls.

“Things are happening, Stiles, if what you say is true. There’s something weird happening in Beacon Hills and if that’s the case, the people deserve to know about it.”

“There’s _always_ something crazy happening in Beacon Hills. And I’ve never even told you about Finstock.”

“Well then,” Lydia says, “something clearly needs to be done. How can I help? I’ve got this really great book on academic publishing my supervisor loaned me, which I can lend to you.”

“Not everyone can do things the way you do, Lydia,” Stiles snaps, and she’s taken aback, because she did not expect _that_. “Just because you’re going to graduate valedictorian, win a couple of dozen prizes and save the world, doesn’t mean it works that way for the rest of us.”

“I didn’t mean it like that, Stiles,” she says, the words like cotton candy in her through, sticky and sickening. One of the things about being a mathematician is her insatiable need to measure people; one of the things about being a genius is that, sometimes, she forgets to check her answers. “I —“

Stiles just stands up and walks away.

*

Honestly? She always been at least somewhat in touch with her emotions (previous poor choices in sexual partners aside) and she knows by now that love isn’t a rational calculation, something that she can categorise and catalogue, slotting the puzzle pieces together with perfectly manicured fingers.

That doesn’t mean Lydia doesn’t try to solve it anyway.

*

Allison just rolls her eyes, when Lydia approaches her and tells the story. She’s never really done this before, just gone up to someone and told them about her pseudo-love dramas out of the blue, so she's not quite sure if the eye roll is a _this is stupid_ or a _you’re stupid_  thing. The part of her brain that’s still rational says it’s probably both.

They’re in the back alley beyond the mall, where the delivery trucks come, both of them leaning against the grey brick wall in their uniforms. One of the good things about the West Coast is actually being able to go outside in January. Jennifer is training someone new today, a grouchy looking guy named Derek, who Lydia thinks is the least likely person to work at a juice bar after her, so they’ve been granted a reprieve.

“i’m just — surprised, is all,” Allison says, after Lydia makes an involuntary noise of protest. “I never really pegged you as the type of girl who _had_ love dramas.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” Lydia replies, and Allison makes a small hum of agreement, but doesn’t contradict her. It hurts more than the eye roll. She really likes Allison, who’s probably the most unpretentious person she’s ever been friends with, and more importantly, she knows her well enough to know that she won’t be scared off by Lydia’s genius. (Allison had sworn at a customer in French once, a honey-sweet smile plastered on her face the entire time, and Lydia had pretty much committed herself to this friendship then.) That doesn’t make this conversation any less scary than the prospect of werewolves and demons though; Lydia doesn’t like to put her heart on the line without knowing the trajectory.

“But,” Allison says, after a moment’s silence, “that doesn’t mean that I’m not invested in this story now. We’re coworkers, we’re supposed to share all our most embarrassing stories, right?”

“You’ve already seen me in the apron.”

“Fair point.”

Lydia takes a deep breath, thinks about how to parse what she’s feeling. “I wanted to help him, you know,” she says softly. “I’m not even judging his decision to drop out of college — mostly,” she adds, at Allison’s raised eyebrow. Even if still she’s not exactly forthcoming about her grades, Allison has seen the size of the binders she brings into work during finals. “He’s really passionate about this stuff, and I just wanted to find a way to help him share that with others.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re kind of intimidating?” Allison replies, running a hand through her ponytail, tugging at a knot.

“Only every day of my life since fifth grade,” Lydia replies. “Around the time I told this boy called Aiden that cooties weren’t scientifically possible, and what he was feeling was probably a crush. Or the late autumn flu.”

Allison snorts. “And what happened next?”

“We dated for six weeks, before we had a tearful break up on the playground because he didn’t want to get serious.” Lydia shrugs. “We were ten, and boys are weird.”

She doesn’t mention that she’d gained a reputation by then, the girl who knew too much (which, in her conservative suburban New York school, was the worst thing a girl could do). She doesn’t mention that it was the same time she’d started wearing makeup, straightening her hair and pretending that she didn’t have an opinion on whether _Romeo and Juliet_ was the greatest love story of all time or a metaphor about the idiocy of teenagers. (For the record: it’s both, and that’s the tragedy of it that she knows all too well.)

She thinks Allison might get it though, even if their personal experiences aren’t the same, because she loops her arm in Lydia’s and says, “Derek’s going to need all the practice smiling at customers that he can get, so we can probably spare another fifteen. Come on, I’ll buy you a coffee.”

“And Stiles —?”

“You’ll figure it out,” Allison says, which is infuriatingly cryptic, but also the best advice Lydia thinks she could have gotten. Lydia Martin has always been excellent at applying the rules —of the road, of math, of social hierarchies — this is her chance to develop the rules for herself.

“Thanks,” Lydia replies, and then she pauses. For all the time they’ve spent hanging out at work, and the bowling trip with Scott and Stiles, she knows so little about Allison’s life so, after a moment,  she adds, “what did you mean, when you said that ghosts were close to home?”

“We all have secrets, Lydia,” Allison says, “You have whatever it is that makes you work ten times harder at college than the average person and voluntarily hang out with Stiles Stilinski — which, that’s not even a _real name_  — I have… well, let’s just say there’s a reason I didn’t really want to go back to our holiday home in France for the holidays.”

“If the story’s that long, you better buy me two coffees,” Lydia says, and the two of them walk hand in hand back inside.

*****

**Lydia:** Can I buy you lunch to apologise? I even promise not to judge what you call a ‘salad’.

 **Stiles:** has anyone ever told you how shit you are at this apology thing?

 **Stiles:** throw in a peanut butter milkshake and i’m there

*

True to her word, Lydia doesn’t even grimace when he orders a salad at Whole Foods that’s pretty every colour of the rainbow _except_ green, and she waits until he’s finished a third of it before she starts.

“Allison tells me I’m kind of intimidating,” she starts off with, “and while it’s not normally the kind of thing I’d apologise for, I’m… I’m sorry if it made you feel like you weren’t worth it.”

“Maybe Allison should be the one studying at Caltech,” Stiles says, “because you’re kind of the most intimidating girl I’ve ever met. If this was high school, I probably would have never spoken to you either.”

“Well, if this was high school, I probably wouldn’t have spoken to you either, so let’s be glad we’re both almost adults.”

“Would you have changed your mind if I made varsity lacrosse?”

Lydia pretends to think about it. “Lacrosse is the one where you _don’t_ run straight at guys twice your size, right?”

“Ask Scott, he’s the one who actually made the team,” Stiles says, with a forced smile.

Lydia’s own smile softens. “For what it’s worth, my days of dating jocks are long over.” She pauses.   “Like I said, I don’t usually apologise to people, but I’m sorry.”

Stiles glances up at her. “It’s hard to explain,” he says, and it’s the slowest he’s ever talked. “I’m not stupid, I know I’m smart --”

“Keep going,” she says, biting back a laugh, because it’s obvious that he needs to get this off his chest.

“I’m really good at being the sidekick, you know. When I said that Scott’s not really interested in documenting what we do, I meant… he’s the one who actually discovers things. Little old ladies love him, for some reason, so they tell him all sorts of stories about their lives and the weird shit that happened to them when they were younger. Meanwhile, I’m the guy that drives the Jeep.”

“So?”

“So when you offered to help me get my work published, even though I’m not even in college and you’re a genius, I panicked. I wanted it to be mine.”

“It is yours,” she says and, suddenly, emboldened, she reaches out across the table and takes his hand in her. Stiles looks a little shocked, but he doesn’t flinch at the touch. “I mean, I want a footnote to say thank you for recommending you those books, but in case you hadn’t noticed, supernatural creatures are not my speciality.”

“No, just math,” Stiles pretends to tick them off on his fingers, “biology, Latin, a handful of other obscure languages,  _and_ physics.”

“Well when you put it like that.”

“Like Allison said, intimidating.”

“And yet —“ because there’s something she can’t quite get her head around, despite all the things Stiles has just listed that she’s supposed to be a genius at — “you’ve chosen to be friends with me.”

“Well,” Stiles says, echoing her own words from months ago, “I like a good challenge.”

*

 

 **Stiles:** come by after ur shift. we got an order i think u’d appreciate  

 **Lydia:** For the last time, Stiles, I’m not interested in Game of Thrones. I prefer books where not everybody dies.

 **Stiles:** spoilers!!!!!!

 **Stiles:** but actually cause this is LA we’re expanding our health n fitness section and some of this diet advice is unreal. i thought you might like to de-stress by tearing it to shreds

 **Lydia:** It’s a date. I’ll bring (gluten-free) snacks.

 **Stiles:** btw do you think you can manufacture me a twinkie in your lab as well? sometimes i hate LA

*

She slips under the half-shut roller door just after closing time, calling out Stiles’ name. He’s over in the children’s section, unpacking the last few books from a box and placing them on the shelf, and she heads in that direction.

“Where’s this pseudoscientific nonsense you promised me?” Lydia asks.

“Patience, young Padawan.”

“Did you just pretend to be Yoda?” Lydia laughs, because she can’t believe she’s friends with this idiot — although she’d never have it any other way. (And if the people back home in New York found out and mocked her for it, well — Stiles would probably just laugh and offer to take them out with his Jeep.)

Stiles shrugs. “Scott would make a better Yoda than me. Gives incredibly sage advice, and — you should meet his mom, sometime. Probably the sweetest woman in existence, put up with me all through eleventh grade when even my dad thought I was an insufferable idiot, and she makes the most incredible cookies.”

“I’ll have to tell Allison what she’s getting herself into.”

“Also,” Stiles says, looking unexpectedly nervous, “I have something else to tell you.”

“Okay,” Lydia says, hoping to reassure him. “I think all your research has concluded that I’m not a vampire, so I promise I won’t bite.”

Stiles takes a deep breath. “I’m going back to college.”

That’s… unexpected. She has a lot of questions: what are you going to major in?; please tell me it’s not psychology because that would be such a waste of your talents; does this mean you won’t work at The Book Nook anymore?

Instead, she asks, “are you sure this is what you want to do? Have you heard how many people call me crazy because I enjoy solving equations.”

Stiles nods. “ _I’ve_ called you crazy, Lyds. Several times in fact.” He pauses. “I’m going to study online at first, maybe do some night classes so I can keep working. I’m thinking about majoring in Anthropology — get a better understanding of how people from other cultures think about religion and the supernatural, you know. I figured it might give us some clues — and if worst comes to worst and I’m totally unemployable I’ll always have a job here.”

“Well it sounds like Beacon Hills will make a fascinating case study for your senior thesis.”

“So… you don’t think it’s a bad idea?”

“Maybe for all those werewolves who won’t know what hit them when you get to the bottom of this. Based on the evidence that strange things are happening, it would be a crime _not_ to find out everything we can about it.”

“We?” Stiles says.

“Well, after you figure out what’s actually going on up there, we’re going to need to rig up something to stop it. And where would engineers be without mathematicians and physicists?”

“Right. Well first, I might need your help to make sure I don’t flunk out of my gen-ed English requirement.”

“You work in a bookstore, Stiles, I’m sure you’ll be fine with that.”

“Right,” Stiles says again, “and — thanks.”

“I’m —” she says, taking a step back, her heel catching on one of the bookshelves. _So proud of you_ is stuck on her tongue, something she’s never really said to anyone, including herself.

“You’re something,” Stiles says, lips pulling tight even as he glances down at the carpet and blushes dusty-pink in the dim light at the back of aisle six. Lydia can feel the weight of his words in her palm, a thought to spin between her fingers and inspect every inch of; Stiles spins stories like webs of treasured silk, worth every bit as much as any book she could take from this store. And really - she should be mad: Lydia can be anything, anyone, thank you very much, not just a high-heeled wearing Juice Junkie majoring in mathematics who signed up for the faculty history trip for fun, but she quite likes who she is right now, in this moment, pressed up against a row of children’s fiction in a darkened bookstore with a boy standing in front of her, his eyes trained down to the carpet and his hands curling in the pockets of his jeans.

“I’m Lydia,” she whispers, one hand reaching out to cup his jaw, pull his face down to hers, and if she didn’t know better she’d think that Stiles’ sigh as his lips meet hers, breath ghosting across her cheek in a way that feels all too real was his way of saying _I know_.

Stiles takes a step forward, her apron twisting up between them as he presses more and more insistently against her, angling his kisses. Somewhere behind her shoulder, a book falls to the floor with a heavy thump, and she ignores it. Every kiss feels like knowledge gained, and she doesn’t want to know Stiles, she wants to learn him, so she arches up into the kiss, tongue working into Stiles’ mouth and her hand reaching down to the small of his back to pull him closer, letting him use this moment to teach her exactly who he his.

And, Lydia’s kind of glad that osmosis applies to learning, as well as chemistry, she decides, before she lets herself go completely, because who Stiles is? Well, it turns out he’s kind of a fucking fantastic kisser.

*

That night, back in the dorm room, she collapses face down on her bed and grins into her pillow, kicking her legs in the air and fisting her hands in the sheet. Her roommate just sighs and asks if Lydia can help her understand Punnett squares, which are honestly like the easiest part of freshman biology.

This time, though, she doesn’t stop with a simple explanation, drawing out several diagrams on a notepad and quickly making a few notes about a section of the Wikipedia article that needs editing, desperately. She stops just short of linking her roommate to several extra, peer-reviewed articles about the continued relevance of Mendel, because if she didn’t understand this by at least the tenth grade, there’s probably not much hope, but still.

For a moment, Lydia feels like a novel, her entire life ready to be rewritten exactly as she chooses.

*

Stiles comes by, the next day before his shift begins, and orders a complicated smoothie, just to give them time to talk. It’s quiet, just her and Allison on the opening shift today, and Allison’s headed over to Whole Foods to buy more strawberries whilst they wait for a delivery (and probably flirt with Scott, again).

“I’m just saying,” Stiles starts, as she tosses blueberries into the blender, and he holds a book up in front of her, the front cover slightly bent, “we were making out on top of _James and the Giant Peach_. I mean, I have a new respect for Roald Dahl even though we probably just ruined whatever last bits of my childhood I was hanging on to, but we couldn’t even pick a more, you know, suggestive fruit to -” Stiles drops the book to the floor with a thud, and she should probably pay the store for that, at some point - at least make it look like one of their employees isn’t stealing it. “Not that - at least, not there.”

Lydia just grins, wide and toothy, because she never thought she’d have this kind of power working in a juice bar, even if it did help pay for the killer red lipstick she’s wearing. (Painting it on, this morning, had felt less like erasing the memory of Stiles’ mouth against her own and more like enhancing it.)

“You mean like this,” she says, leaning over the bucket of fruit sitting on the counter, waiting to be chopped, and pulling out a banana, holding it up. Stiles’ splutter makes her laugh, but she takes pity on him after a second, dropping the banana back down onto the bench and putting his drink in the blender, the jolt of the whir-whir sound giving them both a second to breathe.

“I don’t usually make out with guys in bookstores after hours if I don’t want it to go there eventually, Stiles,” Lydia says, but she can feel herself blushing at the memory. Stiles head drops, and he stares at his feet for a second, but his shoulders are relaxed enough that she can tell that he’s smiling.

The blender stops, and Lydia takes a step over to it, looking back over her shoulder in case any other customers decide to appear. She tips the juice into a cup, pressing the lid down tight, and slides it across the counter to Stiles with a smile. His hand curls around hers just as she moves to let go of the cup, his grip strong, and Lydia thinks back, all of sudden, to the night before, his hands uncurling in his pockets and coming up to tangle in her hand, pulling out a watermelon seed that had somehow gotten caught up in her curls.

In the fourth grade, Lydia’s teacher had suspected she had an eidetic memory because she’d learnt all of her state capitals and flags in under a week (she hadn’t the heart to tell her she’d known the capitals since age four, when she’d been tall enough to pull her father’s atlas down from the shelf), but really, the thing is that Lydia likes the process of learning, likes reciting and cataloging facts like museum artefacts, all the things she does know and could know about herself, about the world, laid out in her mind like a jigsaw puzzle she’s slowly but surely working to complete. Stiles’s hand fits perfectly with hers, and she can still feel the shadow of his lips against her own as he’d pressed her into the bookshelf, hard enough to leave a mottling bruise at the back of her spine. And, these are things she has memorised already, yes, but they’re also things she just knows.

She pulls her hand away from the cup, twisting it out from beneath his own, and pushes it the rest of the way across the counter. Stiles pulls his wallet from his pocket, thumbing through it, and Lydia shakes her head, laughing, “Consider it a gift,” she says.

Stiles smiles at her from across the counter, bright and warm like the summer’s day their juice bar is supposed to evoke, and she grins right back at him, adds, “Although I expect something in return. Diamonds might be a little pricey, considering one of us should probably pay for that book on the ground, at some point, but I’m sure you’ll think of something.”

Stiles just picks the book up, places it on the counter, and grins.

*

 **Lydia:** This just in: how would you feel about a double date sometime?

 **Allison:** !!!!!!!!!

 **Allison:** also, this couldn’t wait five minutes until I came back from whole foods? (scott says hi, btw! And that if you hurt Stiles, he will fuck you up)

 **Allison:** i may have paraphrased a little. or a lot.

 **Allison:** Scott would never say that

 **Lydia:** So that’s a yes?

*

Later, after Allison’s come back and they’ve dissected every second of last night’s kissing escapade (she ignores the fact that it wasn’t so much an escapade as her body pressed up hard against a bookshelf, anchoring her to reality and telling her, this is exactly where she wants to be), Lydia grabs the book from where she’d stowed it next to her bag and flips absentmindedly through the pages, wondering if it would be weird to sniff it.

It probably would be.

She does it anyway, before pulling out her phone and snapping a selfie with her cheek pressed up against the book, mouth twisted into a pout, and sending it to Stiles.

His response isn’t in English, nor in any of the other six languages that Lydia knows at least a little of, but she understands what he’s trying to say perfectly.

Because, here’s the other thing: Lydia never expected to spend her sophomore year of college working as a Juice Junkie in some decrepit mall in downtown LA.

But, really — all life experience is just another form of learning, and she doesn’t need Stiles (or her expensive collection of college textbooks, or Wikipedia) to tell her that. She’s 99% convinced that the supernatural is real, thanks to Stiles, and she thinks that, together, they could probably face down all of their demons and survive.

Starting with the middle aged soccer mom asking her about the calorie count of her smoothie.

 

 

 


End file.
